There is always Hope
by ThalyaWonders
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John is devastated. He doesn't know what to do with his life anymore, until he meets a girl on the internet. Can she help him realise why he has so much troube accepting Sherlock's death? This story is set after The Reichenbach Fall and before The Empty Hearse.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hi, so this is my very first fanfic ever! (Bear with me ;D ) No, I hope you enjoy it, but I should say English isn't my native language, so please keep that in mind. If you do see any spelling errors, please let me know so I can learn from my mistakes. Thank you so much!**

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CHAPTER 1

John had never had a problem with updating his blog. Not after he'd met Sherlock. When he lived with Sherlock, not a day would pass without something interesting happening. A case here, an annoyed outrage of Sherlock there. Even if he didn't always like it, he never realised how much he would miss it.

But now Sherlock was gone and John had nothing to write about. Nothing happened to him anymore and he felt so alone. He felt like Sherlock had left him and he was mad at him for that. He was so mad, but even though he was mad, he was also very sad. He had lost a great friend. Maybe that is what worries him most. The fact that Sherlock will never know what a great friend he had been for John. John never told him and he knew Sherlock didn't think himself to be a good friend. But he was the best friend he had ever had.

It's so frustrating and unfair. Why did he have to commit suicide? He still doesn't believe Sherlock was a fake, but why would he have committed suicide? And why hadn't he told John about how he felt?

Stupid question, it's Sherlock we're talking about.

Still, John felt like, if he would have paid a bit more attention, maybe he could have prevented this from happening. He could have prevented hell from happening.

There were moments, very soon after Sherlock jumped, that John thought he would follow in his footsteps. Days when he couldn't bear all the people, all the feelings. Although alcohol helped him at times, he could not let himself go, having seen the result of that in Harry. He hated the way he felt, but couldn't stop feeling like it. Like everyone had left him.

Naturally, he had moved out of their flat. It was too much to see those familiar rooms every day. Moving out meant he hardly ever saw misses Hudson. Since he would be of no use to Scotland Yard without Sherlock, he didn't see much of Lestrade either. To be honest, John didn't make any efforts to stay in contact. It would be so much easier to just disappear. But he couldn't. He didn't dare. What if… What if Sherlock was still alive and he would come looking for him, only to realise John would be gone. No, John couldn't really leave London.

Why would Sherlock come looking for him should he still be alive? No, stop thinking like that. Sherlock is definitely… dead.

One stupid word, so much pain.

He had tried writing his blogs, but they always ended in him thinking of ways Sherlock may have faked his death. Every time after trying to write, he felt worse than before. Because he realised his ideas are stupid, because he knows it's not what happened, because it only makes him realise more that Sherlock is… dead. He doesn't know what to do. He worked for a couple of weeks after Sherlock jumped, but he was obviously depressed and was sent home. Money isn't an issue though, Mycroft makes sure of that. As much as he hates relying on other people, it is nice not having to worry about money.

But his life feels so pointless. With Sherlock, he had a purpose. Helping Sherlock, even if it was to feed his gigantic ego, made him feel like he was worth something. Now he's just so… useless. He doesn't know what to do. Nothing interests him anymore.

Last week that changed. He saw an ad on the internet about a website where you can write letters anonymously to someone else. Someone who's also anonymous. You can help them with problems they have or have had and they will try to help you. He thought about the concept for a while. First he thought he would never use something like that, but the more days that went by, the more he thought about doing it. And today he finally found the courage to sign up and take a look at the profiles.

As he logged on with his username AnonymousB122 he thought about the fact that it was illogical that all usernames had to contain the word anonymous in it. Surely this meant that the website could only hold so many usernames? Anyway, he was logged on and ready to take a look.

The first profile he clicked on looked like this:

_Anonymous123_

"_Hi, I can't say my name because then my profile will be deleted, but I'm a man, 40 years old and I'm dealing with the death of my wife. If you have been through something similar, please respond. Thanks."_

No, that is not what he is looking for. He clicks on the next profile.

_ANONYMOUS-luvvly_

"_my story isnt very bad. i used to have quite a lot of friends and then we moved and now i dont have as many friends and i feel lonely. basically, im looking for someone to talk with about stuff but nothing too serious. im 15 by the way and a girl."_

Yikes, he didn't think he could feel so horrible just because the way somebody spelled something. Apparently he could. Moving on.

_AnOnYmOuS222_

"_Hello, I'm a woman, 52 and am currently going through a crisis. My husband is cheating on me, but if I admit that I know this to him, I'm afraid I will lose him. I still love him very much, but I don't want him to cheat on me. If anyone thinks they can help me, please contact me."_

Damnit! This isn't what he is looking for. He had hoped to find… Yes, what exactly was he hoping to find? Just when he was about to log off, because he felt like he was wasting his time, another profile caught his eye.

_AnonymouS_PosH_Girl_

"_Hello, I'm a 32 year old girl/woman and I have to get something off my chest. I feel like I have betrayed my best friend, even if it was for her own good. I don't really know what to do. If you feel like sharing your story with me, I won't stop you. I'm not sure if I will be able to help you in your situation, but I am happy to share my opinion."_

Suddenly John felt an energy, something he hadn't felt for months. He wanted to write to her. Something about her story, he didn't know what, attracted him. Before he could really think about it, and change his mind, he clicked on the button "contact". This made a screen pop up, in which he could write a message to her.

He started typing:

_Dear Anonymous Posh Girl,_

_I am very interested in your story. I myself am dealing with depression, because I lost someone. I would love to hear from you._

_Sincerely,_

_John_

No! He couldn't write that, this was stupid. Also, "sincerely, John"? He wasn't as stupid as to use his real name now was he… No, he had to think this through.

He tried again:

_Dear Anonymous Posh Girl,_

_You sound like an interesting person, I would love to help you figure out your situation. I myself am dealing with depression, after having lost someone. I would really appreciate your opinion on my situation. If you are interested, please reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

John looked at his message with content. This looked good, not too desperate, not too clingy. Also, he was very proud of thinking of the name "Jack". Simple, completely different, yet close to his real name. With only a little bit of doubt he hit the "send" button. He leaned back in his chair, thinking about what he had done. He didn't really want to get his hopes up and he knew he could just be typing to some fake person, but still, he hoped he would get a reply. For the first time in months, he felt like he had something to wake up for the next day.

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**Author's Note: First chapter! I'm already working on the second one, I don't know when it will be done. I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to know what you thought about it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Sooo... Second chapter. I hope you liked the last one, I hope you'll like this one just as much or more ;)**

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CHAPTER 2

The next morning wasn't a pleasant one however. John had had nightmares all night long. One moment he had been back in Afghanistan, the next he saw Sherlock falling again. Over and over until he woke up, his shirt and bed dampened by his sweat. Breathing heavily, he tried to go back to sleep, but he wasn't tired enough. Every time he closed his eyes now, he saw Sherlock. It was too much. After an hour or so, he decided to get up and do something useful.

While he was waiting for his tea to be ready, he remembered what he had done the day before. Realising that maybe he could have a reply, made him forget his tea and he walked over to his desk, where he had left his laptop. Anxiously he waited for the laptop to start up and when it finally had, he tried to type in the address of the website too quickly, which resulted in failing to actually typing it in correctly. After getting mad at himself for being so stupid, he decided that he should drink his tea, which was already starting to get cold, before he would look if he had gotten a reply.

After drinking his tea slightly faster than usual, he returned his attention to his laptop. Typing in the address correctly this time, he was finally able to log on.

When he checked his inbox he was disappointed to see that he had had no reply. He got a bit mad at himself, because he had done exactly that that he wanted to avoid. He had gotten his hopes up. Resisting the urge to punch something, he turned his attention to his grumbling tummy. Right, he hadn't eaten breakfast yet. Distracted by his sudden hunger, he forgot to log off and left his laptop open on the table.

Completely focussed on his breakfast, John couldn't locate the "ding" sound he heard. At first he thought it might be his mobile phone, but when he finally found it, it turned out the battery was completely dead. He reminded himself that he shouldn't forget to charge it, in case someone tried to call him. (Not that he actually thought someone would, he just needed a reason to charge his phone.) After realising it wasn't his phone, John was confused as to where the sound had come from. Only when he decided that he must have imagined it and he walked back to the kitchen to finish his breakfast, his eyes fell on his still opened laptop. He felt a small jolt of hope, which he immediately repressed, when he walked over to his laptop. There it was, in the upper right corner. A yellow 1 next to the icon of an envelope. He had gotten a reply!

With trembling fingers he clicked on the icon, curious as to what the person might have responded. A little voice in the back of his head was cheering with joy, but he knew that the reply could just as well be a negative one. So he repressed the cheery voice.

This is what it said:

_Dear Jack,_

_My condolences. I know how difficult it can be to deal with loss. I think that is what I am experiencing, though not exactly in the same way. If you are willing to confide in me, I will do the same. _

_In short: Me and my best friend got along really well, then a while ago a situation occurred and I did what I thought was best. My friend got really hurt by what I did, but I can't undo it. If you think you are interested or if you think you can help me, I would be happy if you replied._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

John was a bit confused. He didn't exactly know what he was expecting, but not this. He didn't mind though. The straight to the point way of writing was easy to read and he had a feeling that this Hope was an honest person. Yes, he would like to reply, but not now. He doesn't want to seem too eager and also, he hasn't got a clue as to what he would write to her.

He decides to go to the shop, because he found out he didn't have any eggs left while making breakfast. As he looks around his flat to find his keys, he grabs his phone, only to realise seconds later that the battery was dead. (And he should really charge it.) He puts it back on the table and looks for the charger, but instead finds his keys and leaves for the shops.

An hour later he stomps back into his flat, soaked, cold and angry. Who knew it was a Sunday? He thinks about writing to Hope. Almost two hours have passed since he got her reply, replying now wouldn't seem too eager, would it? After looking at his screen blankly for almost fifteen minutes he decides this isn't going to work. He is trying to think of the perfect thing to say, to show her that he is not a lunatic, but he doesn't want his message to seem too casual. He is looking for help, he shouldn't sound like nothing is wrong with him. 'Best to be honest.' He says, to no one really, since he is the only one in his flat. He starts typing.

_Dear Hope,_

_Thank you for the condolences. I would like to know more about your situation. What you have given me now, is too little for me to be able to help you. I would love to help you, so I would love it if you could tell me a bit more about the situation. _

_As for myself, it's not all that complicated. My best friend committed suicide almost a year ago, and I'm having trouble getting back to my life. He changed me, for the better, and it's hard going back to who I was. _

_I'm looking forward to your reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

He wasn't completely happy with what he had written, but he had decided to be honest and not to keep changing the message. It's not like he had anything left to lose. He hit the "send" button.

When John looked at the clock, it was 4 p.m. With a shock he realised he hadn't heard the alarm that reminded him to take his medication, resulting in the fact that he was already half an hour late in taking them. Why hadn't he heard it? Suddenly he remembered. His phone, it needed to be charged. Why was he such an idiot? He quickly found his phone and its charger and plugged his phone in. When he finally typed in his code, he saw he had a missed call. Two more taps from his left index finger and he knew it was Lestrade who had tried to call him. Probably to check in on him. Nice of him, but not really what he wanted.

Just when he tried to find the off-switch for his alarm, (he didn't need that one anymore), his phone started ringing. Looking at the name that appeared in his screen told him it was Lestrade. Again. With a sigh he answered the call.

'_Hello, it's John.'_

'_John, where the hell have you been?'_ Lestrade sounded annoyed and… Did he detect a slight note of worry?_ 'I called you three hours ago but you didn't pick up the phone, and when I stopped by you weren't at home.'_

'_Lestrade, calm down. There's no need to be so worried. I'm not going to do anything stupid.'_

'_Although that is great news to hear, that is not why I called you. We have a case.'_

'_A case?' _John asked, surprise obviously detectable in his voice._ 'Why would you need me for a case? I'm not…'_

'_I know John, I know. But we can probably use your help on this case. Are you interested?'_

Of course he was interested, anything better than sitting in his flat. _'Yeah, I suppose I could take a look.'_

'_Great, I'll text you the address. Meet me there in an hour.'_

'_Will do, see you then.'_

'_Bye John.'_

And with that Lestrade ended the call. John looked down at his phone. He was surprised, but also flattered. For a moment a paranoid voice in his head opted that maybe the whole reason he was called was to make him feel needed so he would indeed not do anything stupid, but John pushed it away. No, if Lestrade said he thought he could be of help, that was all there was to it.

His phone buzzed when he got the text with the address. When he put on his coat and walked out of his flat he had mixed feelings. He felt the typical surge of energy and adrenalin that was all too familiar, but he also had the nagging feeling that it was wrong, unfair of him to do this. Trying to push that thought out of his head he walked to the street to hail a cab. After three cabs mercilessly passed him by, the fourth one stopped. As he got in and told the address to the cabbie, he couldn't help but think: "The game, Sherlock, is on." A sad smile appeared on his face, as the cab drove off.

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**Author's Note: Oehh, how exciting, a case! Now what will that be all about...? :) I'm not sure when I'll be able to work on and post the third chapter, because I should have been doing homework while making this chapter, meaning I'm already behind... :( Hopefully it won't be too long! Thanks for reading! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I realised that I haven't told you guys when this fic is set. It's after The Reichenbach Fall, for those who hadn't noticed. Also, something else I should really mention. I don't own any of the original characters. They belong to the BBC. I'm merely relishing in my fandom that is available thanks to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, my personal Gods. (I do realise that there are a lot of other people involved in the making and producing of Sherlock as well, but I can hardly remember my own phone number, so don't go around expecting I know all those names xD )**

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CHAPTER 3

The longer John sat in the cab, the more nervous he got. When he had agreed to come, he had felt pretty good about it, but he was doubting his decision more and more. If he would have had the guts, he would ask the cabbie to turn around, but he didn't. He doesn't want to disappoint Lestrade, he wants to show that he is doing better. They are worried enough as it is. Finally, the cab stops, they have arrived at their destination.

When John gets out of the cab, he feels that his legs are unsteady and he is having trouble not to be too obvious about it. He sees Lestrade walking towards him and he feels his heart beating rapidly. He doesn't want to be here. What was he thinking? He can't, he simply can't do this, it's too much. Right before Lestrade catches up to him, he turns around and vomits in one of the bushes. Of course, Lestrade sees this and runs up to him. 'Are you alright Jonh?' he asks, worry and uncertainty clearly detectible in his voice. 'Yes. I mean, no…' John replies, without being able to think clearly. There is only one thing that is going through his head: He has to get out of here! 'No, actually, I think I might have food poisoning.' John lies, hoping that Lestrade will believe him. 'I'm so sorry, I don't think I'll be of any use to you now, danger of compromising the integrity of the crime scene and all that.' 'No I suppose you are right. It's a shame, we really could've used your help. But don't worry about it, it's not your fault.' Lestrade says in a reassuring tone. 'Please call me when you've arrived at home, so I know you got home safely.' 'No problem.' John replies, before getting back in the cab that thankfully hadn't left immediately.

The first thing he did when he got home was drink a beer, then he remembered he should call Lestrade.

'_Lestrade.'_

'_Hey Greg, I'm just calling to say that I've arrived at home.'_

'_Ah, that's great to hear, are you feeling any better?'_

'_No, still feeling rather sick, probably going to go to bed early. Hey, I'm really sorry that I couldn't help you today.'_

'_No need to feel sorry, It was hardly your fault. I'll call you next time we have a case where we could use you.'_

'_Yes, I'd love that. Thanks a lot!'_

'_No worry. Okay, Donovan is nagging me about something. Better give her some attention. Sleep well and I hope you'll feel better soon.'_

'_Thanks again. Good luck with Donovan.'_

'_Bye John.'_

'_Bye.' _

With a sigh he fell onto the couch. God, did he feel bad. Not only did he lie to one of his only friends, he also failed to prove that he was doing better. It was just too much, it reminded him so much of those times. And now he had told Lestrade that he would be happy to help him the next time. He was an idiot, why didn't he just tell him he wasn't up for it? Grabbing another beer from the fridge, he settles himself in front of the telly.

After waking up completely disorientated, John mentally scolds himself. He wouldn't let it get this far anymore. Now look at him, passed out in front of the telly, like a slob. It's half past one in the morning, but he isn't tired. At least, not anymore. Also, although he will probably never admit this to himself, he is afraid to go to sleep. The idea that when he closes his eyes, that he might see all those things again without being able to stop it, is holding him back. He really wishes he had someone to talk to right now.

Someone, but not his psychiatrist, because he has stopped seeing her about three months ago. He thought she wasn't helping him. Actually, she was getting too close to the truth, but John, being as oblivious as he can sometimes be, had not realised this. To him, it felt like she was digging in places she shouldn't be digging.

Who could he phone at this hour of the day? Harry? No then he might have to talk to her about her alcoholism and, as hypocritical as it may sound, he is the one that wants to be comforted. After thinking about it for a good ten minutes, while fighting the incredible urge to grab another beer, he realises he has no one. No one he can talk to right now. But maybe… There might be someone…

John grabs his laptop, opens it, waits for it to be started up, opens his internet browser, goes to the website that he can now finally type correctly on the first try, logs in to his account, holds his breath until the page has loaded and breathes a sigh of relieve when he sees the yellow 1 next to the envelope. Hope has replied! Eagerly, he starts reading her message.

_Dear Jack,_

_I suspect your situation might not be as simple as you think. It almost never is. But until I know more about that, I'm afraid I can't help you either. As for me, you asked for more information. Although I cannot tell you everything, I will try my best to make it clear what happened. It is a very difficult situation, I should warn you. If you don't want to help me anymore, you should say so. I prefer honesty over kindness._

_My situation then. I had a friend who I really cared for a lot. I'm not sure if she knew how much I cared for her, because I never really told her. We hadn't known each other for that long, only a couple of years, so it wasn't one of those friendships that had been through a lot of issues. I did, however, completely trust her. She made me feel at ease, which was great because I tend to be stressed a lot. I don't think she liked me as much as I liked her, but that was fine by me. I'd never had a close friend, and she certainly was, so I was really happy because of that. Then, a couple of months ago, something happened._

_I'm really sorry about this, but this is the internet, so I'm not going to tell you what happened, yet. I want to trust you Jack, but I've made a mistake once before and I'm not going to do that again. I do look forward to your reply. If you tell me a bit more about your situation, I'll know I can trust you. Or at least, it will feel like that to me._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

"Wow…" John thought to himself, after reading the message. "It sounds like she was let down hard." He really wants to know what happened now. Well, he was planning on replying anyway, better get to it.

_Dear Hope,_

_I'm sorry to hear that you had a bad experience with trusting a stranger on the internet. I promise however, that I will never be anything but a gentleman. I won't use the information you tell me against you, I wouldn't know why. I really hope I can help you, you sound like you need it. _

_About what I've read so far, it's all pretty logical. I do have one question though. Did you fancy her? Your friend? You say you really liked her, a lot. Don't worry, I don't think there is anything wrong with that. I've actually got an aunt who is a lesbian. Apart from that, I think I have an idea of the situation. I would love to know what happened, I can't help you without more information I'm afraid._

_Right, you want to know more about my situation. Here it goes. My friend committed suicide and I'm not over it yet. I thought I was, but then I started to notice things. One person wore his scarf just like he did. Someone else had the same haircut as he had. Simple things like that. It drove me crazy. I kept seeing things like this, and I was constantly reminded of him. Reminded of the fact that I would never see him again, would never go on adventures with him again. He took me to places I didn't know could be so much fun. He changed me into a better man. He might not have known this, but he was the best friend I've ever had. I hate the fact that I can never tell him that. That I can never let him know. I'm afraid that it might be the reason why he committed suicide. Maybe he thought he wasn't appreciated. I hate the fact that I don't know why he did it. He didn't tell me, and in his note, he only wrote he was sorry for lying to me. But I'm sure he never lied to me, not about anything important. I knew him, probably better than anyone else._

_I'm glad I have someone to talk to. Tonight I was about to do something, something he and I did a lot of times. I thought I was doing better, that I was ready for it. I wasn't. I couldn't do it, and I'm ashamed. I feel like I've betrayed him for trying to do it, and I feel like I've let him down for failing to do it. I feel really bad, I hope you will reply to me. It would be nice to focus on problems that are not my own, for once. Sorry if that's a bit rude. I hope you don't read this and think I'm mental. I should probably stop typing…_

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

Once again, John wasn't completely happy with the result, but once again he reminded himself to be honest. If he wasn't going to be honest, he could just as well type a message to a chair. He didn't delete anything, this was what he thought, this was what he would send to Hope. He pressed the "send" button and logged out.

Almost half past three in the morning. He went to bed and promised himself he could sleep in tomorrow morning. It had relieved him, to finally tell someone how he felt, and now that weight was lifted off his shoulders he felt exhausted. He could hardly undress himself, that's how tired he was. In the end, he did manage to put on his pyjamas and find his bed, before falling asleep. That night, he didn't have any nightmares.

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**Author's Note: I'm really sorry for all the people that were expecting a case to happen. No, wait a second... I'm not sorry. MUAHAHAHAHA! No just kidding, I love you guys. (Wow, if anyone is mental, it's me, not John.) I hope you keep reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but if you have constructive criticism for me, I would love to hear it!**

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CHAPTER 4

John had devoted the greatest part of the Monday to sitting next to his phone, afraid that Lestrade would call him for a case. This didn't happen. Something else that didn't happen was getting a reply from Hope. After he had logged in to his account, he was very disappointed. No reply yet. The rest of the day he kept checking his inbox to see if maybe he'd received a message, but he hadn't. This day wasn't going well. Around 5 pm he was trying to make dinner for himself, but he didn't have a lot of food left in his fridge and some of the things in his fridge, were spoilt. He really did have to go to the shops. If he hurried, he might still be in time. At least it wasn't raining today.

After he had done the shopping, he went to get himself some Chinese, he didn't feel like making dinner anymore. Carrying the bags upstairs was hell, but the lift wasn't working, so he had no choice. Finally unlocking his door, he walked into his flat and straight to the kitchen. He was really craving a cup of tea. "At least it's better than a bottle of beer." he thought to himself. When he turned around, he nearly had a heart attack. Mycroft was sitting in a chair, umbrella leaning against his right leg.

'Wh- What are you doing here?' John managed to say after a couple of seconds. 'Well well, it seems like my decision to upgrade your security wasn't a bad idea after all. At first I deemed it unnecessary, but I am to stand corrected. Why do you even bother with locking your door, if you do not care when anyone comes in?' Mycroft said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 'Well,' John said, not even trying to keep the anger out of his voice, 'I don't see why I should even lock the door if you are going to break in anyway. Besides, today has been a horrible day for me, so please tell me you are here for another reason besides annoying me.' 'A horrible day, really?' Mycroft asked, with a sarcastic voice. 'It must be hard indeed, having to check your laptop all day long, while waiting for a phone call you don't want to have.' John's eyes flicked to all the corners of the room and then back to Mycroft. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Mycroft interrupted him. 'Oh no, my dear Watson, I'm not going to be that obvious. Don't be afraid, there are no cameras besides the ones you should really already know about.' A puzzled look appeared on John's face. 'What do you mean, I should really know? Are there cameras hidden in this room!?' When he didn't get an answer he took a step towards the other man. 'Answer me Mycroft!' John's face was red by now. Mycroft let out a little snort. 'Hidden, absolutely not. They are as obvious as when they would have been in the middle of the room, hanging from the ceiling by a thread. I know I shouldn't have let other people do a job like that. Had I done it, they would indeed have been hidden. But it seems you didn't learn anything from my brother.' At his mention, John's face went from red to white. 'Oh dear,' Mycroft said, 'is that still a forbidden subject? I-' This time it was John who interrupted Mycroft. 'How can you be so crude? Did you not care for him at all? How dare you come into my house, bug it and then say something like that! Why are you actually here Mycroft?' 'Well John, if you ask me so politely, how dare I not respond? I'm here to check up on you of course. See how you are coping. I also wanted to ask if you still need your monthly pay check, or if you are considering working again?' John sighed. As much as he hated the man in front of him right now, he also owed him. A lot. And he wasn't fit enough to work yet. Not with the amount of sleep he was getting. 'Thank you, Mycroft, for your interest. Although I am doing better, I don't feel ready to start working again. I hate to ask, but if it would be possible, I could use the money.' He hated himself when he spoke the words. But they were true, he did need the money. 'No problem,' the older man responded. 'I will leave you to it then.' he said, as he pointed to the bag which contained John's, no longer hot, meal. 'Thanks.' said John, in a completely unconvincing voice. Mycroft walked out the door, umbrella by his side.

As soon as Mycroft had actually left, John tried to find the cameras. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find them. He looked for patterns in dust, that might show him if something had been moved. He looked for anything that was out of the ordinary, but couldn't find anything wrong. He doubted if Mycroft actually had planted cameras, maybe he had made it all up to screw with John. No, why would he do anything like that? John gave up. He sat down and ate his cold meal, without tasting any of it.

That night, he went to bed early. While lying in bed, he thought about the good moments he had with Sherlock. Not the sad or the annoying ones, just the happy ones. Like that first case, when they chased a cab through London, so Sherlock could prove his limp was psychosomatic. Or the time when they were in Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock refused to even wear pants, just a sheet. Or when he nicked an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. The first time that John had heard Sherlock play the violin. All those things, all those happy things went through John's head while falling asleep. Maybe that caused his dream, maybe it was triggered because of Mycroft's visit. Who knows?

In his dream, John stood on top of the hospital, where he had last seen Sherlock in real life. He was looking for Sherlock. Where was he? Suddenly he realised where he was, and with a feeling of immense fear he looked over the edge of the building, at the pavement beneath it. 'John! Watch out!' a low baritone voice shouted. 'You could lose your balance and fall! What are you doing here anyway?' John turned around and saw the face he hadn't seen so alive since… Since a long time. High cheekbones, a pale face surrounded by dark springy curls. In the middle of all that, two piercing light blue eyes, that were looking at John with a quizzical look. 'What? What is it?' he asked, while looking behind him to see if there was anything happening behind his back that may have escaped his notice (which would be an impressive achievement). 'Nothing,' John replied, 'it's great to see you again Sherlock.' As he said this, Sherlock stare became warmer and more intense. 'I know John, and I'm so so sorry. I wish I could've thought of something else, but I couldn't.' A tear escaped from John's eye. 'Why did you do it?' he asked, desperation obvious in his voice. 'I don't know,' Sherlock answered, 'but it's all okay now. Come here.' He opened his arms. John willingly walked into the hug, it was freezing on top of the building. He looked up to the taller man's face after a while. 'Sherlock, I don't think I can let go.' 'Why should you? Everything is all right now.' And he planted a kiss in John's hair. John looked up, with a surprised look in his eyes. Had he imagined what he felt? But he could see in Sherlock's eyes, that he hadn't. He looked at Sherlock, uncertain about what he should say or do, but Sherlock said to him: 'It's all right John, don't worry.' And suddenly they were at home, in 221B Baker Street. John was lying on the couch, Sherlock sat next to him. 'Everything is all right John,' he repeated, 'just go to sleep.' And John closed his eyes.

He awoke with a start, the dream already fleeting from his memory. John willed his brain to remember, but sadly, he could not. The more he tried to remember, the faster it got away from him. After a minute or so, he could only remember 221B Baker Street, and the vague feeling of happiness. He fell asleep again, and when he woke the next morning, all memories of the dream had gone and he didn't even remember waking up in the middle of the night.

Finally getting a proper night of sleep, without nightmares, gave John a bit of energy. That, and maybe the fact that there might be cameras hidden somewhere, prompted him to clean out his flat for a bit. He started with the kitchen, seeing that this was probably the main source of any unwanted smells. After finishing with the kitchen, he immediately continued and cleaned the sitting room. In the process, he found his watch, which he didn't realise he had lost until he had found it. Having cleaned most of the sitting room when it was half past 3, and time to take his medication, he decided to stop.

He didn't find any cameras while cleaning and he started to wonder how Mycroft knew what he did all day. "Surely there must be a camera somewhere?" he thought to himself. "He couldn't have deducted what he had done all day, could he?" He then realised that this was Mycroft he was thinking about, not just anyone. He gave up his search for cameras and finally allowed himself to check the website.

He was really hoping that Hope had replied. As he is logging in, he isn't sure whether it's a good thing that he is hopeful, or a bad thing. As soon as he's logged in he knows: It's a bad thing. His stomach sinks when he doesn't see the yellow 1. "Why hasn't she replied? It's been nearly two days! He has two options, he can either wait for her to respond or he can take the initiative, and write to her." John decides to take the initiative, he's going to ask her what is going on. Feeling good about this sudden feeling of certainty, he starts typing.

_Dear Hope,_

_I hope everything is alright? I was looking forward to your answer, and I'm a bit worried that I haven't heard from you yet. If anything I said upset you, I'm really sorry. I had a bit too much to drink that night, I apologise. _

_I meant it, what I said. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. And I'm also really interested in what happened. I feel like we can help each other. _

_I hope you're not thinking about doing something stupid. (Ironic I should say this to you. Someone said this to me, just the other day.) There are always people that care, that care about you. I think you can count me as well. The way I've been looking forward to your reply, the way I want to know more about you. They all lead to the same conclusion: I care about you. Maybe not romantically, but I do care._

_Please talk to me, I'm really looking forward to your reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

He had almost signed with John. Such a habit. Thankfully he saw it just in time, just as he was going to press the "send" button. He changed it into Jack and pressed "send". He had told her the truth, he realised, while he logged off. He does care for her. He really wants her to be okay, he knows how horrible it can be, when someone is gone. A bit surprised by his own realisation, he gets up from behind his laptop. Hmm… You can see exactly where he had given up on cleaning. "Better finish what I started." he thinks. With a sigh he grabs the vacuum cleaner and promises himself not to look at the website until he's cleaned his whole flat. That should be a good motivation to keep going.

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**Author's Note: Yay! Mycroft! :D Sorry if his way of speaking is a bit strange at times. I'm not that good at posh English, but I gave it my best!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: If you have read all the chapters so far, and you haven't given up yet, thank you! I really appreciate it. You make my day! :D**

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CHAPTER 5

The next day, John wakes up with a smile on his face. He doesn't really know why, he just has a good feeling about this day. He does still have to clean, but only his bedroom is left, so it shouldn't be too much work. Although, this is the room that hasn't been cleaned for the longest. After a light breakfast, consisting of two cups of tea and two slices of toast, he gets to it. Still checking for hidden cameras, he starts cleaning his room thoroughly.

When he is almost finished, he spots a box, lying under his bed. He doesn't know what it is, though he does feel like he's seen it before. Cautiously, he grabs it and shakes it a little. It's not too heavy and it sounds like there are a couple of things inside. When he opens it, he is confused for about three seconds, and then he recognises what's inside. A little smile creeps onto his face, he completely forgot that he had taken this with him to this flat.

It's the box he had kept out of Sherlock's hands. It contained a couple of pictures of himself, his sister and their parents, when he was younger. Also, a couple of pictures that he had carried with him while he was in the army. The edges were crumpled and dirty, and the pictures discoloured. His dog tag was in here as well, together with an old bracelet and a letter. He'd never shown this to Sherlock, nor had he ever wanted to do so. Sherlock could know enough about him, just by looking. There were things he wanted to keep to himself. Now of course, he feels like he should have told him those things. To include him, to show him he meant something to John. "No," he thinks to himself, "don't go there. If you start thinking like that, you might as well blame yourself for his suicide. He jumped, because… Well, I don't know why, but he jumped and that's it. It's not your fault. Stop it. We're past that."

"Right." With a little shake of his head, he puts the lid back on the box and looks around the room. "Almost done, just clean out that nightstand and I can check the website." With that thought in mind, he cleaned the nightstand quite a bit faster than you'd think possible. Finally, he was done. He inhaled through his nose. It was a nice smell. The smell of tea and cleaning supplies. Not bad, he'd actually done it, he'd cleaned his entire flat. Now he is finally allowed to check the website.

He smiles when he sees the yellow one. At last, Hope has replied! With a quick click from his mouse, he opens her message and reads it.

_Dear Jack,_

_I'm sorry I didn't reply sooner. I was a bit confused after your first reply, I'll explain to you in a second. Don't be stupid, I don't think you're mental and even if I did, I think I sort of trust you. _

_First, let me reply to your situation. You think that your friend committing suicide was your fault? I don't think it was. From what I gather, you two got along great. So why would it be your fault? You say you feel like you never included him enough, but how can you be certain he felt like that? Maybe he thought you included him just enough. You also say that in his note he wrote that he lied to you. I think he might have done that to make it easier for you to move on. Maybe he thought, that if you thought he wasn't really who he said he was, you would be able to move on faster. I'm not sure of course, these are all just ideas based upon the information you supplied me with. I'd try to look somewhere else, if you're trying to figure out why he did it. Did he have any family? Family he didn't get along with? I should say though, you won't move on if you keep trying to figure out what happened._

_As for me, I do apologise for not answering to you sooner. Especially if you really were looking forward to my reply. It's just, after what you implied, after what you asked… Do I fancy her? I'm not sure. I never thought about it. I'm not someone who has been in a lot of relationships. None, actually. Usually I'm far too busy, so I don't really think about it that much. But I've thought about it now, and there are signs that I might like her more than just a friend. So I was pretty confused because of that. _

_I think I'll tell you the rest of my situation. My friend and I got along really well, but then there was a threat. A threat to me, that would hurt her. I couldn't let it get that far, so I decided to show the person that was blackmailing me that she didn't matter to me anymore. I left her, without really telling her what was going on. I couldn't. She knew nothing about the blackmailing, and if I would've told her, the blackmailer would have found out eventually. So I left. She doesn't know what happened or why I left, and I know it's hurting her, but I can't go back and tell her what has been going on. The blackmailer will find out and then everything will have been for nothing. _

_I hope this isn't too much for you. Thanks for not giving up on me._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

John swallows. What a reply. He feels a bit ashamed that he made her doubt herself, but he feels quite good about himself that he spotted something like that. He might have learned something from Sherlock after all. Hope's situation is probably worse than his own. At least, that's how John sees it. He would rather not have to live with something like that. Knowing that the one you care about so much is in pain because of you and you can't do anything to make it stop.

There's another part of Hope's message that is nagging him. The part about family. Could Mycroft be the reason that Sherlock jumped? Hope might be thinking in the right direction, with family. Mycroft would be able to get his younger brother to do anything, wouldn't he? He's basically the British Government, what can't he do? Just as he's getting mad at Mycroft (and thinking some mean things that are best not repeated), his phone rings.

'_John Watson.'_

'_Hello John, it's Greg.'_

'_Hi Greg, what's going on? Everything alright?'_

'_Well, actually, there's been another murder. Would you fancy taking a look?'_ There was something in Lestrade's voice that John couldn't quite place. Was it excitement?

'_Do you think I can be of use to you?'_

'_Yes, I think someone with a medical background could really help.' _Seriously, why did he sound so… So confident?

'_Okay, I can come right away.'_

'_Excellent John, I'll text you the address.'_

'_No problem Greg, meet you there!'_

'_Bye John.'_

'_Bye.'_

Interestingly enough, he actually wants to go. Just a couple of days ago he was sitting next to the phone, afraid of this phone call. Now he doesn't really care, he's curious as to why Lestrade would need his help. This time when he hails a cab, he doesn't feel the pressure he felt last time. This time, it almost feels normal, even without Sherlock at his side.

The address isn't too far away from where John lives nowadays, so it only takes him twenty minutes to get to the crime scene. As he pays the cabbie and gets out of the cab, a little wave of panic flows through him, but he represses it. He had let Lestrade down last time, but not today. Today he is going to do this. He sees Lestrade walking towards him, a serious look on his face. "Probably trying to see if I'm going to be sick again." John thinks to himself. Lestrade does look a bit concerned. When the detective speaks to him, John hears that he isn't as serious as he looks. Once again, there's something in his voice John can't quite put his finger on. With growing curiosity John looks at him, he's almost impatient to hear what Lestrade has to say. 'John! You feeling all better?' the detective asks, a smile appearing on his face. 'I was worried about you, you know? You rushing off like that, I thought that maybe it was a bit too much.' "Damn it," John thinks, "_now_ Lestrade has to be a good detective." 'No, I just really ate some bad chinese.' he lied quickly, trying to sound as convincing as possible. He has a feeling the detective isn't buying it, but he doesn't really care enough to try and convince him. 'So, what's this all about then?' John asks, gesturing to the police tape and the police standing around. 'Yes, of course, the body.' Lestrade replies, finally letting John go from his scrutinising gaze. 'Follow me.'

They walk around the house, towards the backyard. A woman is lying in the grass. Her position reminds John a bit of the woman of his first case with Sherlock. Facedown on the grass, arms and legs spread out. He turns to Lestrade. 'So why exactly did you call me?' Lestrade looks at him with a little smirk. 'Well John, the problem is that we don't know how she died. She wasn't suffocated, nor does she have any external wounds. We're running blood tests to see if she was poisoned, but I doubt it. We were wondering what you would make of it. We thought that maybe your background as a medical man, plus the fact that you must have learned something from Sherlock, would make it possible for you to find out what happened.' John looks at Lestrade, surprised. 'You really think I can help you guys..? Well, I can always try.'

He bends over the victim and looks at her. "What would Sherlock be looking at, what would he be looking for?" His eyes scan her body, thoroughly. "What can he deduce from all of this, what is the victim telling him?" As he takes in everything he can, he doesn't notice that Lestrade is looking at him, with a twinkle in his eye. After a couple of minutes, John gets back up. He looks at the body once more and nods, as to convince himself that he really has seen everything. Lestrade looks at him. 'And, what can you tell us, what do you think?' John takes a deep breath and starts talking.

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**Author's Note: Ha, a case after all! Will John be able to help, what will happen next? Dun dun DUUUUN! (Drama intensifies) xD**


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

'Well, first of all, I think the woman is someone who isn't normally outside a lot. Her job is one of sitting behind a desk that requires working with a computer, probably an administrator of some sort. She was in a relationship until recently, probably broke it off because her boyfriend was hitting her. She has been expecting something like this to happen. I don't think she has been poisoned, but I'm not sure how she died. She was killed by a left handed man, someone with access to medical supplies, presumably her ex-boyfriend. '

Lestrade looks at him, his mouth open. 'How… How can you know all that?' He mutters. 'John looks Lestrade in the eye and answers. 'I'm not sure if I got it right.' 'Still,' Lestrade replies, 'that bloody reminds me of Sherlock.' When John takes a second to let that remark sink in, he doesn't notice that Lestrade looks awfully cheerful. Someone has been murdered after all.

Lestrade is still looking at John, the unanswered question visible in his face. 'Right.' John says, when he sees the way Lestrade is looking at him. 'I suppose… I can try and explain. Again, I'm not sure if I'm right, I'm just guessing.' 'Let's hear it then.' Lestrade looks at John with an expecting look. John, a bit nervous because he really isn't certain about the things he's told Lestrade, clears his throat.

'Uhh… Well, she doesn't usually get outside a lot. Her clothes are very nice, but also rather chilly. A neat blouse with a plain T-shirt, and her trousers are elegant as well. You can see that she used to sit behind a desk, because even though her shoes are not the best fitting, she doesn't have any blisters. Also, her wrists have creases, which show you that she was resting them on the edge of a desk for a long time. She probably used to work on a computer, because she doesn't have callused hands, so no manual labour. If you look at her nails, you can see that they are perfectly manicured but short. Probably because long nails are very impractical while typing on a computer.'

He stopped for a moment, catching his breath. As he looks up at Lestrade, he sees that Lestrade is nodding at him, urging him to go on. He does. 'Now here's the part that I'm not sure about. I think she used to be in a violent relationship. She has bruises on her face and on her arms, all covered up with make-up. I think she left him, maybe a week ago, but I'm not sure.'

Once again, he looks at Lestrade, who is looking at him with a quizzical look on his face. 'Why do you think that?' He asks. 'Well, I'm not sure, but her earrings match with her rings, and I've seen jewellery sets like this before. You choose a pattern, you get rings, earrings and a necklace with that pattern. But you can engrave your loved one's name in the necklace, to make it a bit more personal. I think she got that set from her ex-boyfriend, and then when she broke it off, she took off the necklace, because that was the most significant item of jewellery to link her with her ex. If he would have broken up with her, she might have kept wearing her necklace, but the fact that she isn't, leads me to think she broke up with him.'

'Quite impressive, John,' Lestrade says, looking quite surprised, 'but why do you think her ex killed her and not just someone else, and how do you know the killer is left handed? Oh, and you said she had been expecting this?'

John nods. 'I'm assuming the killer is a man, because he overpowered her and pushed her to the ground. My guess is that it's her ex-boyfriend, because, as I said before, he hit her. He's a violent man and probably wanted revenge for being dumped. Her ex-boyfriend is left handed, as you can see from her bruises. The one on her face is on her right side. If her boyfriend would've hit her with his right hand, swinging in from the right side, the bruise would be on her left side. Therefore, he is left handed. Also visible from the fact that the bruises around her right wrist are more prominent than the bruises on her left wrist. Same story there. I think her boyfriend killed her, because the only wound I can see is a puncture wound from a needle, on the left side of her neck.'

'Wait a moment,' Lestrade interrupts, 'you just explained that the wound should be on the right side of her neck, if her ex did it.' John shakes his head in disagreement. 'No, the killer overpowered her and got her on the ground. To keep her there, he would have to put his knee on her back. In that position, a left handed person would stick a needle in the left side of her neck, which is what happened here.' He looks at Lestrade to see his response, but the detective is once again nodding, showing he understands what he is explaining.

'Now the part that I'm the least sure about. I think she might have been expecting this. Probably ever since she broke up with him. Maybe she received a threat from him, or she just expected this, with him being violent and all. This is also why I think her ex has to be someone with access to medical supplies. The puncture wound in her neck is from a needle and presumably the cause of her death. It's also an explanation as to why her violent ex didn't beat her to death. This way, the chance of being discovered is a lot smaller.

She has been under an immense amount of stress lately. She has lost a lot of weight very recently. Her clothes are ill-fitting, but they fit her skin tone this time of year, so they can't be that old. Also, as well manicured her nails are, she has been tearing the flesh around the nails and on top of that you can see that her hair is very thin. Now this could just be a condition, but the fact that it seems that she has been losing hair as well leads me to think that it is because of stress. That's all, I think.' As he says this he can almost hear Sherlock in his head. "Brilliant John. You've missed almost everything of importance, but apart from that, brilliant!"

Lestrade has one question left for him. 'If she expected this, then why did she come out here? She probably knew she was going to die.' 'I'm not sure,' John shrugged, 'maybe she thought she could talk him out of it? I'm not Sherlock, Lestrade. I'm not sure about anything I just told you, and I don't know why she agreed to come out here.'

'Don't beat yourself up for that detail. It's not the most important one. Now we can go ahead and find out who her boyfriend was. If he has any connections to medical jobs, we'll bring him in for questioning.' John nodded. 'Thanks.' He almost whispered. Lestrade took a closer look at John. 'Thank you. You've helped us a lot. You did learn something from Sherlock after all.' When John doesn't really reply to that compliment, Lestrade grabs his arm. 'Hey, why are you so sad all of a sudden? I called you over here to make sure you weren't going to sulk away in that flat of yours. I thought it was going great. You were great. And now all of a sudden you're sad?' John looks up. For a moment, he doesn't reply. Then he gathers strength and answers. 'I'm supposed to be a doctor, I'm supposed to help you with the medical things, but I can't even do that properly. I have no clue what killed her. The puncture wound made me suspect poison, but I couldn't see any symptoms on her body of any poison whatsoever. I don't get it!'

After a moment of silence he opens his mouth again. 'And it feels like I'm betraying him. This… This whole consulting detective act, that's his thing, not mine. It doesn't fit me and it just makes me realise that he's gone and he's never coming back.' The last couple of words sound a bit weak, as he's trying to fight back tears. Lestrade watches him, silently. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls John towards him and gives him a hug. A firm hug that means: Everything will be all right, but you have to pull yourself together. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but that's long enough. When John steps back he looks at Lestrade, at his friend, and smiles. 'Thank you.' He says. Lestrade just smiles.

'I'm sorry, I just felt like I couldn't get any air…' As he says that, he suddenly looks back at the woman in the grass. 'Air!' He kneels next to the woman again. 'Of course,' he mutters to himself, looking at her neck once more, 'why didn't I think of that earlier?' 'Think of what?' Lestrade asks, having trouble keeping up. One second, John's on the verge of tears, the next he jumps back to the victim. "He really did learn something from Sherlock." He thinks to himself. 'What is it, what did you find?'

John gets up. 'She wasn't poisoned!' He exclaims. Lestrade looks confused. 'But, the needle, the puncture wound?' 'Yes, that's why it's brilliant. If you would test for poisons, you wouldn't find anything.' 'Then stop gloating and tell me what happened!' 'Right. The killer took a syringe, filled it with air, and pumped that air in her vein. That vein went straight to her brain, which didn't get any blood anymore because of this big bubble of air.' The look on his face can be described as nothing else but pride. He's proud that he solved and he should be. No one else would've thought about that. Well… Besides Sherlock. Lestrade smiles. 'Brilliant John, really great! Thank you so much for helping us.' John nods. 'No problem, the pleasure was all mine. But if you don't mind, I'm going back to my flat. I have something I need to do.' 'Of course, thanks for the help again.' Lestrade shouts after him, as John is already walking towards the street again, looking for a cab to take him home.

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**Author's Note: I'm rounding this story up in 2, maybe 3 more chapters.**


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The moment he steps into the cab, a movement to his right catches his eye. When he turns his head, he sees a tall figure ducking into an alley. For a moment John forgets to breathe. That guy, it could have been Sherlock. Then the cabbie calls him and he shakes his head. It must have been his imagination. Sherlock had been in his head a lot this night, because of the murder. He sits down and tries to think about something else. Five minutes into the ride, he's looking through the window, not really thinking about anything.

As soon as the cab stopped in front of his flat, John tumbled out of it. When the cabbie called him back because he had forgotten to pay, he realised why Sherlock thought he was useful to have around.

The reason why John wants to be back in his flat, is because that's where his laptop is. And that translates to: That's where Hope is. Forget writing a sodding blog, writing to someone else is so much better. This way, you get advise as well as a distraction. He still hasn't replied to Hope yet, since the last time he checked, but at least he has something to write about.

When he logs in to the website, he sees that he has two more messages. Surprised, he looks at them. Both are from Hope. The second one is sent only half an hour ago. He clicks on the first message.

_Dear Jack,_

_I have been re-reading our messages and I noticed something. You asked me if I fancied my friend, but the way you talk about your friend sometimes… Are you sure he was nothing more than a friend to you? Have you ever had dreams (day or night) about him? I realised, after what you said, that I did indeed have dreams quite often about her. Is he in your mind more often than other people? I don't think it's any of my business, but seeing you helped me realise something, I thought I'd try to return the favour._

_I hope you are doing fine, you haven't replied as soon as previous days. Everything alright? I hope it's because of something positive that you're not replying. Not that replying to me is obligatory of course. Like I said before, if you don't feel like writing me anymore, please just tell me. Although I have to say, I'd be rather disappointed. I like talking to you. It calms me down a bit, distracts me from… Other things I might do. Bad things._

_The main reason as to why I'm writing, is because I want to give you some advice. I think you have to stop looking for an answer. What you're doing doesn't just make it hard for you to move on, but it might also make it hard for other people that are grieving. Also, there's always the chance that there just isn't a satisfactory answer. I hope you've thought about that._

_I hope you reply soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

While reading the first paragraph of the message, John's face goes from interested, to quizzical, to sarcastic, to thoughtful and finally to shock. Even before reading the other two paragraphs, he turns away from his laptop and puts his hands in his hair. It can't be true what Hope is saying, there's just no way…

Why then, had he just remembered a dream with Sherlock while reading it? A dream with Sherlock and himself, on top of the hospital, hugging. And why had he remembered that he had had more than one of those dreams? And why, _why_, did these dreams make him feel so… Strange? They made him happy, but at the same time, very sad. And then he realised. Hope was right. Everyone had been right all along. Even Sherlock had seen it the very first time they went to that bloody restaurant. He had been attracted to Sherlock from the start.

Now he understands why Hope had taken such a long time to reply last time. This is confusing. To put his mind off of these strange thoughts he is starting to have, he reads the last two paragraphs. During the last one, his face goes back into a frown. She has a point, but he still thinks Mycroft has something to do with it. He promises himself: If it turns out that Mycroft hasn't got anything to do with it, he will let it rest.

As he's thinking about what to reply, he remembers that Hope had sent him two messages. He decides to read the second one as well, that way, he can reply to both messages at once.

_Dear Jack,_

_I have a confession to make. I went to see my friend today. Well, I went and saw her, she never saw me. I saw her from a distance and I could swear she had moved on. I know she isn't, but it looked like it. I was surprised really, when I found out where she was. I can't tell you, but I didn't expect her to go there this soon. Maybe she's not as heartbroken as I had started believing. _

_Jack, I wanted to ask you something. Would you like to meet? I would, I'd love to meet you. We could meet somewhere, in a public place, if that would make you feel safer. I'd like that. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

The second message surprises John. Not only had he assumed that Hope was far away from her friend, but on top that, he had never expected her to ask this. He had thought about it once, but concluded they didn't know each other long enough yet. After all, only five days have passed since he had sent that first message. It's strange. Now that he thinks about it, it feels like they've known each other a lot longer. Probably because they've sent each other so many messages. It might also have helped that they have been completely honest. At least John has. The only thing he lied about is his name.

Does he want to meet her? Yes, he really does. It's a scary idea, meeting this person to whom he has told so many things, but also very exciting. Finally being able to put a face with the words. He starts typing.

_Dear Hope,_

_It's ironic. I never expected this, although people have suggested it so many times. I think you might be right. I think I might have liked him more than just a friend. I don't know if I'm gay, I've had many girlfriends, some of them I really loved (or I thought I did). Maybe I'm bisexual. Maybe he's just the exception. He was a marvellous person. Brilliantly clever. Handsome as well, with his damn cheekbones. It doesn't matter, I suppose. He's gone for good. _

_The reason why I haven't replied as soon as usual, was indeed because of a good reason. Remember a couple of messages ago, when I said I almost did something I used to do with him, but couldn't? Tonight I did it. And I did it brilliantly, if I may say so myself. It made me feel better._

_I agree with your advice, although not very willingly. You made a great point, saying that it might be difficult for other people as well. There's one person I'd like to check, and if I'm sure he hasn't got anything to do with the suicide, I'm going to stop looking. I promise._

_What you said about watching your friend. I'm surprised, I thought you had moved to another place, far away from her. I hope she didn't see you. That might make things worse._

_About your proposal to meet. I think it would be nice, you seem very interesting and I'd love to get to know you better. And what's a better way to get to know someone than to meet them and see them? I would like to meet in a public place. It's not that I don't trust you, but I think that will make us both more at ease. _

_I'm wondering though. I don't know where you live, and I don't feel like giving my address yet. Where will we meet? How do we choose the location? If you still want to go through with it, please reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

While pressing "send" John feels excited. He might finally meet Hope soon. She sounds so smart and nice in her messages. Also, it's a lot faster to communicate by talking than by sending messages.

When John lets out a huge yawn, he realises he is very tired. It's not very late per se, but he has had a very busy day.

While lying in bed, John's brain goes back to his recent discovery. Sherlock is all over his mind. For the first time John really sees that Sherlock was never really just his flatmate. Not even just his friend. It hurts to think about it, but he doesn't want to stop. After a while a question pops up in his head. "Did Sherlock feel the same way as I do?" He secretly hopes he didn't. That way he doesn't have to think about what could have been if Sherlock hadn't killed himself.

Although John really wants to think about it and figure everything out, his tiredness takes over after a while and he falls asleep.

The next morning John is woken up by his mobile phone. The annoying sound goes on relentlessly while he tries to find his phone, without being able to get his eyes to open completely. When he finally finds it, his mood is not too great. He answers his phone, maybe a bit ruder than needed.

'_John.' _He says, very curtly.

'_Hello John, it's Lestrade. Did I wake you up?' _

John can hear that Lestrade feels a bit guilty.

'_Yeah, no, it's not a problem. Had to get up anyway. Why are you calling me this early?'_

'_I'm calling to say that we found the murderer. You were right, it was her ex-boyfriend.' _Lestrade sounds very excited.

Hearing this makes John feel much better.

'_Really? That's great! How was she killed, have you confirmed that yet?'_

'_You were right about that as well.' _It sound almost as if Lestrade is praising him, like a dog who has done a trick correctly.

'_Did I get anything wrong?' _John asks, unknowingly repeating the exact same words Sherlock had used, all those years ago.

'_Well… The ex didn't have a job in the medical department.' _

'_But the her neck was stabbed with precision and without hesitation, he must have known what he was doing!'_

'_As it turns out, the ex-boyfriend used to be an addict. That's where he learned how to handle a needle.'_

'_Okay. Well, I didn't think I'd get this much correctly anyway. Thank you for calling.'_

'_Yeah, I thought you might want to know.'_

'_I did, thanks.'_

'_Alright, sorry for waking you up.'_

'_No problem, see you soon?'_

'_Sure, bye John.'_

'_Bye.'_

Wow, he's done it. He actually managed to be useful. A broad smile spreads across his face. It doesn't bother him that he didn't get everything right. He's happy enough that the connections he saw, the connections he thought he saw, weren't all complete rubbish. He wonders what Sherlock would have thought about this. Sherlock. John sighs. Why did everything have to get so complicated all of a sudden?

Then he gets an idea. He kneels next to his bed and reaches underneath. When his hands find the object he's looking for, he grabs it, and pulls it from underneath the bed. It's a box. The same box that he found a couple of days ago. He opens it and looks inside. He's only looking for one thing. The letter. When he sees it, he takes it from the box and unfolds it. Sitting propped up to the bed, he starts reading it. He knows the words by heart. Still, after he's finished reading it, his chest feels heavy. After staring at the letter for a couple of minutes, he turns it over. He grabs a pen and starts to write something on the blank side of the paper. When he's finished he puts it back in the box, which he puts back under the bed. The weight has lifted from his chest and he gets up.

He opens his laptop and goes to the site that has become so familiar to him. He is surprised to see a yellow 1. He only logged on to type a message to Hope. He wanted to ask her if he could help her. Seems lately she has been helping him more than he's been helping her.

_Dear Jack,_

_I know it's hard. I was very surprised when I realised what you said might be true. Take your time to figure it out, don't jump to conclusions. Although, you sounded very confident in your reply. Maybe it's because like you said, everyone has known from the start. Maybe that included you as well. I understand it's more than frustrating that he's gone, and you can't find out what his feelings for you were. Please don't fall back into depression, try to stay positive. Promise me you won't give up hope._

_Congratulations on taking that step. I don't know what it was you did, but you sounded excited. You deserve it. _

_I'm happy you want to meet as well. I've thought about the problem of choosing a location. I think I'll just mention a place that's fairly manageable for me, and then you can reply whether or not you can manage it as well. It's not the most practical way, but just like you, I don't feel like giving you my address yet._

_My first suggestion: Birmingham. Let me know if this suits you._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

"Clever." John thinks, although Birmingham is too far away for his liking. But this way they can certainly figure out a location where they can meet. With a smile he starts replying.

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**Author's Note: Once again, thanks to everyone who's reading! If you have any criticism, please PM me and let me know. I'd love to learn from my mistakes :)**


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

It's half past eleven in the morning. John is sitting on a bench in front of the London Eye, waiting patiently. After a couple more messages, Hope and he had come to the conclusion that London was actually a great place for them to meet. Both familiar as well, apparently, they were able to pick a particular bench close to the London Eye, where they will meet. Today, at eleven o'clock, he will see Hope's face for the first time. He is excited. A little bit nervous as well. "What if Hope lied throughout all their messages, and turns out to be some sort of psychopath." No, he shakes his head. He can't believe that those messages weren't sincere. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes till eleven.

Ten more minutes have passed and John is getting more and more nervous. He takes his phone out of his pocket, to check if this is indeed the correct date. It is. It's also the correct place and almost the correct time. Just ten minutes left. He looks around, scans the crowd. Tries to see if he can find Hope. It shouldn't be too hard. She's wearing a blue ribbon. It may sound cliché, but it's an easy way to make a distinction. He's wearing a white ribbon. Five minutes left. "What if she doesn't show up? Shouldn't she be here already? He was early, why shouldn't she be early?" Just as John is realising that he isn't making much sense, he sees it. Something blue. It's not the ribbon he was expecting. It's not a ribbon at all. It's a scarf, and not just any scarf. He can see only a glimpse of it, but he's sure of what he saw. After a little hesitation he gets up from the bench.

He saw the person wearing the scarf was going to the right, so John walks to the right. He stands still, tries to look around nonchalantly, while he's actually scanning his surroundings. There! Going around that corner, he's sure. Quickly he walks towards the corner and peers into the alley it leads to. No one's there. He walks into the alley until the end. It's a dead end, but he's sure that someone went in here. "He can't just have vanished!" Then he sees that to his left, the wall isn't too high, and that that bin has been placed very strategically. Only seconds later, John lands on the other side of the wall. He's in another alley now. He follows it until the alley splits into two paths. After a quick look he sees that the right path is a dead end, so he chooses to follow the left path. He's running now. Then, just as he thinks he's lost the man, he sees him. Just the back of him and only for a second. The alley ends in a big street, and when John gets there, he sighs. The crowd is too big, he can't see anything. He's not going to find the man here.

Suddenly he realises what he was doing before he started chasing someone. He looks at his watch. "Shit!" he thinks to himself, although he may have said it out loud as well. It's ten past eleven and he still has to go back to the bench. So much for a good first impression.

When he finally gets back to the bench, it's almost half past eleven. There is no sign of Hope. John could hit himself in the head out of frustration. "She's probably left, thought I set her up." He waits for over an hour, just to be sure, but Hope doesn't show up. Angry and disappointed, he goes home.

As soon as he gets home, he opens his laptop. When he signs in to the website, there's no message from Hope. He hadn't expected one, so he starts typing immediately.

_Dear Hope,_

_I'm so so so incredibly sorry! I never meant to let you down, but I thought I saw my friend, I really did. I went after him and tried to get a hold of him, but I lost him. I know it can't be him, but I could've sworn it was him. I'm sorry, please forgive me. I'm a horrible person and I deserve that you are probably hating me right now, but I want make it up to you._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack _

After sending the message he rests his head on the table. He's so confused. Realising that Sherlock wasn't just a friend to him had made everything so much more complicated. He started seeing him everywhere. In real life as well as in his dreams. A couple of nights ago, he could've sworn that he heard someone play the violin outside of his flat, but when he got up and looked out of the window, he didn't see anyone. It was driving him mad.

Because he didn't have anything better to do, he grabbed a book and started reading. He didn't know he was waiting for something, until he heard the "ding" sound. The sound that he had heard for the first time only a couple of weeks ago. Immediately, he threw the book away and jumped to his laptop. He was still signed in. Hope had replied fairly quickly, assuming she had been in town to meet him. Somewhere in the back of his head he realised that Hope must live close to the London Eye as well. Somewhere in London. He clicked on the message.

_Dear Jack,_

_Don't apologise. You don't need to. If there's anyone who should apologise, it's me. I never showed up, not really. I suppose you couldn't know that._

_There's something that I need to tell you, or rather, show you. I'd like to set a new date, but I'd rather meet somewhere a bit more private this time. How about Speedy's bar on Baker Street? I hope you will still want to meet me, despite the fact that I didn't show up today._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

John swallows. His mind is overflowing with thoughts. "Hope never showed up? Why wouldn't she have, especially if she wants to meet me again? And why Baker Street? Is it a coincidence, or does Hope know more than she's been letting on? She did say something about telling me something. Am I ready to go Baker Street again? Should I go? What if she lets me down again? No, she won't. What am I going to do?"

Then, because John is a man who likes mystery and potential danger, he decides he will meet Hope in Speedy's bar.

_Dear Hope,_

_Seems that meeting was never meant to be. I want to give this, give you, another chance. I think Speedy's bar is a good place to meet._

_What day do you want to meet up, and what time? I promise I won't go and chase some imaginary guy this time._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

When he presses the "send" button, he sighs. He's not sure what to think of this day. He's sad that Hope never showed up, because if she would have, he would have been too busy to think Sherlock was around.

Sherlock. He really thought it was him. Thinking back, he realises that he never saw more of the man than his coat and a blue scarf. That's not much to go on. In hindsight, he probably imagined the whole thing. He hopes Hope will be able to meet soon. Since he has realised his feelings for Sherlock it's been getting more and more difficult to put him out of his head. He scolds himself internally. He was trying to get over Sherlock, instead, he's imagining what he would say to Sherlock if he was still alive. How he would say what he's feeling. It's hopeless. He probably wouldn't say anything. He'd be too scared that Sherlock wouldn't return his feelings.

It's strange, the last couple of weeks before Sherlock killed himself, John had thought the consulting detective had finally started to loosen up a little. They had even had a couple of meaningful conversations. They ended in John being declared an idiot, but still. It was nice, he had felt like Sherlock saw him as a friend. But even now, with new information from his side, he doesn't think there was more to it than that. Just a friend. Although being a friend of Sherlock Holmes, that's quite an achievement.

John is interrupted from his thoughts when he, once again, hears the "ding" sound coming from his laptop. Hope has replied.

_Dear Jack,_

_I'm very glad that you decided that you still want to meet me. _

_If it suits you, two days from now, ten o'clock in the morning._

_Meet you at Speedy's bar._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

He replies that the date and time are manageable for him, and he logs off. Although it's hardly afternoon, he feels tired. Today has been emotionally challenging. He decides to take a little nap, and after that, he'll see what happens. He has more than a day to fill, before anything will happen again.

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**Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for reading, it makes me very happy :) Also, I got my first review. THANKS! :D**

** Next chapter will be the last. I'll post it tomorrow!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Final chapter! Enjoy!**

* * *

CHAPTER 9

Speedy's bar. A quarter to ten. John arrived five minutes ago, but has not yet been able to bring himself to go inside. The sight of that familiar green door right next to the bar stops him. He's standing on the opposite side of the street, watching. He has to go in, he's promised Hope. He takes a deep breath and crosses the road. Another deep breath and he enters the bar.

As soon as he enters, he looks around, trying to see if anyone is wearing a blue ribbon. They hadn't agreed to wear ribbons again, but he had still decided to wear his white ribbon. He suspected Hope might be wearing hers as well. After he's scanned everyone, he comes to the conclusion that Hope hasn't arrived yet. No one is wearing a blue ribbon, and no one responded to the fact that he was wearing a white one. Right when he's looking for a seat which will allow him to see the door as well as the rest of the bar, Mrs Hudson walks in with someone's order.

When John sees her, he feels guilty. He should have stayed in contact with her, he promised after they had visited Sherlock's grave. But first he couldn't bring himself to it, and after a while he was too ashamed to go. He hadn't thought about the fact that this was Mrs Hudson's bar until he saw her walk in.

At first she doesn't notice him, but when she does, she smiles. It's a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, which makes her look a bit sad. He can tell she's not sad though, so it confuses him. She walks over to his seat. 'John, dear, how are you? I haven't seen you in ages.' He gives her a nod. 'Yes, no, I'm sorry. I should have come over sometime.' She gives him another sad smile. 'So what are you doing here then?' She asks, and her eyes dart to the ribbon he's wearing. John clears his throat. 'I'm meeting someone, actually.' 'Really?' Mrs Hudson asks. She's smiling, a proper smile this time. 'Who are you meeting then?' She asks expectantly, looking at his ribbon again. For a moment John isn't sure if he should answer truthfully. But Hope is going to walk in any second now, so it probably doesn't matter. 'Her name is Hope, I met her on the internet.' He looks at Mrs Hudson and expects to see disapproval. That's not what he sees when he looks at her. What he sees confuses John. Mrs Hudson looks shocked. He knew she wouldn't like the fact that he had met someone online, but he didn't think she would react this badly.

Then Mrs Hudson does something very unexpected. She grabs his hand. 'Oh John.' 'What's going on Mrs Hudson? Did I say something?' Mrs Hudson just squeezes his hand tighter. 'I have to ask you to do something.' She whispers, after a couple of seconds. 'Alright. What is it?' John replies, still frowning. Mrs Hudson hesitates for a moment. 'You have to go upstairs, to your old flat.' John freezes, he doesn't know what to say. He only manages to utter one word. 'Why?' Mrs Hudson looks a bit uncomfortable. 'Please just do it.' She says, very softly. 'Hope can walk in any second.' As he says this he looks at his watch. Two minutes past ten. 'Honey, please just go upstairs.' Mrs Hudson gives him a sympathetic look. 'Well I can't just leave, what if Hope shows up?' John knows it's just an excuse, and so does Mrs Hudson. 'I'll take care of that, you just go upstairs.' And she gently pushes John, who has gotten up on his feet, to the door. 'Alright then.' He says, and he walks out of the bar and goes straight to the door next to it.

When he tries the door, it's locked. It doesn't surprise him, there's no reason for that door to be unlocked. He slips his hand in his left pocket, ignores a piece of paper, and takes out a key. A key he has carried with him every day for the past two and a half years. Even after Sherlock died and he moved to his new flat, he never got rid of it. Never returned it to Mrs Hudson, who never said anything about it. He pushes it in the lock. It fits. He had half expected that the lock had been changed, but apparently it hadn't. Slowly, he turns the key, until he feels the door unlock. He pushes it open and takes a step inside. When he breathes in, he smells the air. It smells a bit dusty, but he can still recognise that typical smell. The smell of home. Carefully he walks up the stairs. He's walked these steps a thousand times, and he still remembers which steps squeak when you step on them. After the seventh step, he comes to a sudden stop. At first he thinks his ears are deceiving him again. He closes his eyes and listens. He listens to a sound that can only be created by very skilful hands. His heart is beating rapidly, the soothing sounds of the violin caressing his ears. He walks the last ten steps with his eyes closed, drinking in the sound of the music. When he gets up on the last step, he opens his eyes. The door is closed. He reaches out his hand and shifts his wait, which makes the floor creak underneath him. The violin stops. John grabs the door handle and turns it. The door opens ever so slowly. Through a small crack, John can already see some of the furniture that is still in the exact same place as over half a year ago. With a final act of courage he swings the door open completely. He looks around the room, taking in everything he sees. Slowly, from left to right, he's covering the whole flat. Until he's stopped at the second window. John swallows. 'Sherlock...' He whispers, and then everything goes dark.

'John. John, wake up.' A deep baritone voice is talking to him. It sounds like the voice is miles away, but he still recognises it. He would recognise that voice anywhere. He tries to open his eyes, but the light is too bright, so he shuts them again. 'John, it's alright. I'm here.' The voice again. "But it can't be Sherlock. He died. I must be dreaming." John feels cosy and safe. The deep voice in the background soothes him. "What a nice dream." He thinks, as he drifts off again.

The second time he is woken up, his head is clearer. Even though he could open his eyes this time if he wanted to, he keeps them shut. He doesn't want to lose the image he can see right now. Sherlock's silhouette standing in front of the window. 'John, are you alright?' The deep baritone voice sounds worried. Genuinely worried. John opens his eyes.

He is lying on the couch, Sherlock is sitting next to him. 'Sherlock.' He says, his voice sounding very small. 'Yes, it's me. It's really me.' Sherlock looks at him and grabs his hand. John doesn't know what to say. 'How?' He manages to utter. 'It's a long story really.' Sherlock gives him a weak smile. For a couple of minutes, they just sit there, in silence. Then Sherlock's face turns serious.

'I have to ask you something.' John just nods. 'How do I say this,' Sherlock starts, fiddling nervously with one of the cushions, 'do you… Do you really think more of me than just a friend?' Shyly, he looks away. John starts to reply, but suddenly he stops. 'How did you know?' Sherlock looks down, at his chest. Only then does John see it, he's wearing a blue ribbon. 'I thought you might wear yours.' Sherlock says, pointing to the white ribbon on John's chest.

John's mouth opens in surprise. 'You're Hope?' He asks, almost shouting this time. 'You were sending messages to me all along and never told me you were alive! How could you? You have no idea of the pain I went through.' Sherlock raises his hands, in defence. 'I'm sorry, but I didn't know at first either. After a couple of message I was pretty sure it was you I was talking to, but I had to be sure. That's why I arranged the first meeting in a public place. So I would know for sure, so I could watch you without being seen.' John looks at him. 'But I still saw you.' Sherlock looks at John. 'Yes, yes you did. And you almost got me too. Given your reaction just now, I'm happy that didn't happen.' John looks through the room, without seeing anything. Suddenly he frowns.

'Wait a moment. How do you mean you didn't know it was me in the beginning? Was it a coincidence that I sent you a message? I don't believe that. And what were you doing on a site like that?' Sherlock sighs. 'I suppose this is the work of Mycroft. A couple of weeks ago he told me to check my e-mail, that he had a surprise for me. When I asked him what it was, he told me that that was for me to solve. I couldn't resist. When I opened my mail, I had an e-mail with the address of the website in it, and a confirmation of an account. One day later, when I checked the website, I had gotten a message from someone called Jack.' After the last sentence he gives John a meaningful look. John tries not to look ashamed, he had known that the name he chose had been very obvious.

'So it was a coincidence then.' He replied. 'I was the first one to send a message. Mycroft couldn't have predicted that, that I would send you of all people a message. It could have been anyone, and then his whole plan would have failed. That doesn't sound like Mycroft at all.' Sherlock shakes his head. 'To be honest, I think the whole website is a fake. When I looked it up, I found out that the website belonged to someone called "Mike Hollis".' He rolls his eyes at that point. 'The other accounts you checked out, they probably all had some sort of rubbish story. That way, mine would be the only one interesting enough to pick.' John nods, then he shakes his head. 'I still don't understand why Mycroft would do that. You knew that I was alive, what riddle was there to solve?'

When he looks at Sherlock, he finds Sherlock looking away from him. 'You still haven't answered my question.' He says in his deep voice, almost whispering. For a second John is confused, but then he blushes. When he looks at Sherlock again, the man is watching him very closely. Without saying anything, John reaches into his left pocket, and takes out the piece of paper. It's the letter from the box. After he had set up a meeting with Hope, he had decided to put it in his pocket, just in case he'd feel like showing it to her.

He hands it over to Sherlock and tells him to read the first side. For once, he obliges without saying anything. He reads.

_Dear mum and dad,_

_I know that if you are reading this, I will be dead. I hope you will never have to read this, but I thought that, may the situation ever occur, it would be nice to have a final goodbye. I want to tell you that I love you, I've always loved you. Even when I didn't show it. I want to thank you for the wonderful life you have given me. When I look back at my childhood, I only have happy memories. Thank you for that. If I die here, I will have died happily. I've never been unhappy in my life, and I've had a wonderful life so far. The only thing that bothers me, is that I've never found love. Growing up with you as parents, I always looked forward to my own marriage. I imagined it to be just like yours. That will be my only regret, that I will have missed out on that. But that's my own fault. Don't be sad that I'm dead. Don't ruin your lives mourning over me. Make sure Harry goes into rehab, she can't stay drunk forever. I don't know what else I should tell you. Thank you so much. You made me who I am today, and I am very proud of that._

_Love, _

_Your son_

_John_

When he's done reading, Sherlock looks up at him. Before he can say anything, John speaks again. 'Now read the other side.' Sherlock turns the letter over.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_This time it's the other way around. Not a letter from the dead to the living, but from the living to the dead. It's a shame you will never be able to read this. Although, maybe it's for the best. On the other side of this letter, I wrote a farewell note to my parents. I wrote it when I was in Afghanistan, during a very difficult time, when I was almost certain I wouldn't make it out alive. I wasn't too wrong. Only four weeks after I wrote that letter, I got shot._

_What I wrote in my letter was true. All of it. And it was still true, until I met you. I may not have realised it at the time, but I do now. The moments we spent chasing criminals and solving murders (well, you really did all the solving) are some of the best moments of my life. It took me a while, but I finally figured out that it wasn't because of the thrill, that it wasn't because of the danger. It was because those moments were spent with you. I love you Sherlock Holmes, I have since our very first case. I wish I knew how you felt about me, but that will be just one more mystery._

_You should know that I forgive you Sherlock, for everything._

_Love,_

_John_

This time, when Sherlock looks up from the letter, his eyes are filled with tears. Without saying a word he puts the letter on the table and turns his body so he's facing John. John isn't looking at him, he's looking down at his hands.

John doesn't know how to act. Sherlock is being awfully quiet. Then he feels warm fingers under his chin. The fingers lift his head and when he looks up, he looks into Sherlock's eyes. The next second, they close the distance between them, and he can feel Sherlock's lips on his. A warm feeling washes over him and he closes his eyes.

For the first time in his life, he feels complete.

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**Author's Note: I wanted to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, followed or favourited this story. I'm very glad that my first fanfic turned out rather okay :D Please let me know what you thought of the story!**


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